Saturday, 21 June 2014

Postman Pat delivered this postcard this morning, from Belladonna. It seems that her hot air balloon was not blown out of the sky over the Bay of Biscay by the French Air Force (*weeps uncontrollably at this news*), but she made it back to her homeland. What a delightful little place Norilsk is, reminds me of Wales.

Good riddance to Belladonna, that's what I say. Let the Russians have her.

Tuesday, 17 June 2014

A reader emailed to ask precisely why I got rid of Belladonna. Have you not been reading the blog, my dear? Belladonna was a stark-raving lunatic. And she was Russian! If that's not enough, a few weeks ago before she was finally ejected from the premises and began living rough on the village green, Belladonna was politely told to clean the bathroom until she could see her great ugly face reflected in the glistening porcelain; I have impeccable cleaning standards and it's not an altogether unusual request, you might think, for a live-in maid to perform such a task. Here are the pictures of Belladonna "cleaning the bathroom", just to prove to the world her lunacy.

It
was at this point that Belladonna cast off her pink maid's pinafore,
threw down her feather duster and completely snapped. It was like a
small bomb going off.

Finding the bathroom door locked, Belladonna decided to break it down, with an axe taken from the wood shed.

In no time at all, she had turned most of the bathroom door into matchsticks with the axe. She then put her face through the gaping hole and shrieked like a banshee "Heeere's Bella!".

When one is powdering one's nose, it is the most inconvenient moment for an axe attack.

I dunno.... I do blame those high energy drinks, like Red Bull, that she's been consuming in vast quantities for her disturbed behaviour.

After I escaped from Belladonna's axe-wielding clutches through the bathroom window via a little game of kiss-chase through the hedge maze, I found that she'd been writing her autobiography on the old typewriter in her servants' quarters. What a strange piece of writing it turned out to be.

That night, after barricading myself into my room for fear of further attacks from my mentally-deranged maid, I had the most terrifying nightmare of my life, in which Belladonna in her younger years appeared as twins holding hands. I woke up screaming the house down.

I hope, dear Reader, I've made it obvious why Belladonna the Maid had to go! I am hoping to hire a new maid and I've placed an ad in Horse & Hound Magazine. It would be wonderful to find a reliable girl, a shining example such as MitziClutterfromtheGutter's Carmen, who is, apparently, a domestic goddess.

Friday, 13 June 2014

Enough's enough. Today was the final camel that broke the straw's back: former Russianchampion shot-putter and failed household maid, Belladonna Zlatogrivov was seen cavorting naked outside the village pub with a stuffed parrot on her shoulder, singing filthy sailors' songs all afternoon at the top of her voice (she even makes Bjork sound vaguely musical). Belladonna had to go, and had to go today.... but how? How was I to get rid of this monstrous fly in the ointment? I put my purple knitted thinking cap on and hatched a cunning plan: knowing Belladonna had a penchant for getting as drunk as a skunk and was also probably half-starved, I laid out a treasure trail of Russian vodka, creme eggs, chocolate eclairs, Wagon Wheels, packets of Tunnock's tea cakes, endless Bounty and Wispa chocolate bars, Twix and Snickers, lining the path all the way from Belladonna's Blowjob Tent on the village green to the spot where I wanted her.

After the trap was set, shockingly, I saw Belladonna on the ground like a pig sniffing after a truffle, as she gulped down Crunchies and creme eggs and glugged vodka like there was no tomorrow; she moved at alarming speed, leaving in her wake empty wrappers and a disarray of finished bottles. The tranquility of that afternoon was broken by pestilential bouts of flatulence and belches as cacophonous as those of an Amazonian bullfrog. With no small amount of glee, I found her some time later, at the end of the treasure trail, fast asleep in the little wicker basket attached to the hot air balloon, stolen that afternoon from a garden centre near Milton Keynes by none other than moi. I lit the burners and tied a brick to the propane release cord, watching excitedly as the balloon inflated and the whole thing lifted into the air.

As the sun began to set over Brill, the hot air balloon rose high into the sky and drifted on the strong wind in the general direction of France. Quite a difficult job painting farewell messages on the both sides of the balloon, but well worth the effect!

Thursday, 12 June 2014

Juan got all excited in the trouser department this morning when Eurovision winner Conchita Wurst appeared on TV singing Rise Like a Phoenix (no! that's not a mayonnaise stain on the collar of my dress). I adore Conchita: not only is she beautiful, but she can sing, she has an amazing wardrobe and she's proudly trans. Imagine my boiling disgust to learn that Russia, a little-known country east of the Balkans, made disgusting and shameful comments about Conchita: "there is no limit to our outrage, this is the end of Europe. There are no men or women in Europe, just it". It? Referring to a goddess like Conchita as it? Boo hiss boo!

So, without further a-do, let's take a quick look at Russia's offering in the Eurovision Song Contest. The ballad "Do You Think I'm Sexy?" was performed by sultry lounge singer,Mikel Gorbachev, who twerked his way onto stage wearing a sickle-print cocktail dress. Isn't he sexy? I love that beetroot stain on his forehead.

Tripe dressed as mutton

Sadly, revenge is a salad best served with arsenic, for the musical ears of Europe awarded Russia's Eurovision entry nil point (that's zero to those who don't speak Welsh). Poor Russia! I once considered a holiday in Russia, to their version of the Costa del Sol, known as Norilsk, in Siberia. Here are some photos, to tempt you.

Sadly, the Russian Embassy refused my visa. Moved to tears by the missed opportunity to visit Norilsk's stunning coastline, I stood outside the Russian Embassy in Central London singing at the top of my voice Sweet Transvestite by the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

You may remember that my ex-maid, Belladonna, comes from Russia. Another reason the place should be bombed to smithereens. Anyway, let's forget about silly little places like Russia and just enjoy the extraordinary talent that is Conchita Wurst:-

Tuesday, 10 June 2014

Traffic wardens - like a plague of locusts - are one of this nation's most vilified sub-species. They're generally monosyllabic or completely mute, walk with a shuffle, spit in three directions and have all the charm of a face-to-face encounter with Gollum. As if by chance, it was just four weeks ago, whilst I was out dogging in the little but very popular layby that runs at the back of the A34 just north of Oxford, that one of their kind slapped a yellow-and-black ticket on my Daimler. Who would have known that 30 minutes of fun in the bushes and over the picnic tables could have cost me a £40 Fixed Penalty Charge?

Since that time, I have issued my chauffeur with written instructions (they are sellotaped to the steering wheel) to show them no mercy and run them over, as a matter of cause (Juan loves a game of ten-pin bowling). And my tactic for evading the clutches of the traffic warden whilst out dogging? I invented this little game to keep their tiny little brains occupied....

Sunday, 8 June 2014

A terrible thing has reared its ugly head in my life: my Russian maid, Belladonna Zlatogrivov - formerly a pupil at the School of Domestic Education for Overweight Monkeys in Vladivostok, and violently ejected from my household for the gross act of insubordination for refusing to clean the house's 27 bathrooms with just a toothbrush and a bottle of Ajax - has been performing some sort of deranged sex show on the green in Brill, in the heart of my once-respectable village. And not only that, but news of its has reached London. As a consequence, my nerves are like shredded tuna; I've been popping Valium all day like they're Smarties.A little sparrow on the grapevine told me that Belladonna had set up a new business, presumably to earn money for her 20-a-day vodka habit. Here are the photos - those that are easily offended should not proceed any further. You have been warned. Be prepared for a shock-fest:

This monstrous apparition is Belladonna's very own Blowjob Tent, a 10-foot high teepee, which she has erected on the village green, amidst the growing rubbish tip that she is slowly transforming this once beautiful area into. She is selling all 18-stone of herself for the princely sum of 50p; obviously, she would go down a treat in some Victorian circus alongside the Bearded Lady and the Elephant Man.This awful poster has also gone up around the village:

And she's even making in-roads at Piccadilly Circus: a photo of her colossal bulk resting on a chaise-longue about to eat a grape has appeared at the Central London spot.

I don't know how she's managed it... maybe she has Max Clifford as her agent? I have to hatch a plan to get rid of her, once and for all!

About Me

My name is Fanny Love. Described by the media as "like Alice in Wonderland, on acid",
I'm a Texan-born transvestite, who also happens to be a part-time super model, celebrated authoress and occasional shoplifter. I adore the company of beautiful young men at my isolated country estate in the English countryside. Join me on my unorthodox travels around little England, accompanied by Juan (my pin-up Brazilian chauffeur) and my two adorable dogs, Mr. Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop (a rainbow-dyed poodle) and Brenda (a 3-year old Doberman bitch with an obsession about red stilettos).